“Something tells me you might get away with a misdemeanor or two this week. Still, waste not, want not.” Hackman slid the untouched bottle toward himself. “What about a pint later on? I need a sherpa to show me the way.” Rebus ignored him, kept walking. Back in the fresh air, he risked a glance through the window, saw Hackman doing a little improvised shuffle as he headed toward the women.
14
The so-called Camp Horizon on the edge of Stirling, sandwiched between a soccer field and a trading estate, reminded Siobhan of some of the temporary encampments she’d seen around the Greenham Common Air Base in the 1980s, when she’d hitched there as a teenager to protest about nuclear missiles. There weren’t just tents here, but elaborate wigwams and structures made of osiers, resembling willow igloos. Canvases had been strung between the trees, daubed with rainbows and peace signs. Smoke was rising from campfires, and there was the pungent scent of cannabis in the air. Solar panels and a small wind turbine seemed to be providing electricity for strings of multicolored lightbulbs. A trailer was supplying legal advice and free condoms, while discarded leaflets provided additional information on everything from HIV to third world debt.
She had been stopped at five separate checkpoints on the route from Edinburgh. Despite her showing ID, one security man had even insisted she open the trunk of her car.
“These people have all kinds of sympathizers,” he’d explained.
“They’re well on their way to getting another,” Siobhan had muttered in response.
The inhabitants of the camp seemed to have split into distinct tribes, with the anti-poverty contingent remaining separate from the hard-core anarchists. Red flags seemed to be acting as a border between the two. Old-time hippies formed another subgroup, one of the wigwams their epicenter. Beans were cooking on a stove, while a makeshift sign announced reiki and holistic healing between the hours of five and eight with “special rates for unwaged/students.”
Siobhan had asked one of the guards at the entrance about Santal. He’d shaken his head.
“No names, no problems.” He’d looked her up and down. “Mind a word of warning?”
“What?”
“You look like a cop working undercover.”
She’d followed his eyes. “Is it the overalls?”
He’d shaken his head again. “The clean hair.”
So she’d ruffled it a bit, without seeming to convince him. “Anyone else in there undercover?”
“Bound to be,” he’d said with a smile. “But I’m not going to spot the good ones, am I?”
Her car was parked in the city center. If worse came to the worst, she’d sleep in the car rather than under the stars. The site was a lot bigger than the one in Edinburgh, the tents more densely grouped. As dusk encroached, she had to watch out for tent pegs and guy ropes. Twice she passed a young man with a straggly beard who was trying to interest people in “herbal relaxation.” Third time, their eyes met.
“Lost somebody?” he asked.
“Friend of mine called Santal.”
He shook his head. “Not a great one for names.” So she gave a brief description. He shook his head again. “If you just sit and chill, maybe she’ll come to you.” He held out a ready-rolled joint. “On the house.”
“Only available to new customers?” she guessed.
“Even the forces of law and order need to relax at day’s end.”
She stared at him for a moment. “I’m impressed. Is it the hair?”
“The bag doesn’t help,” he commented. “What you really want is a muddy backpack. That thing”-indicating the guilty item-“makes you look like you’re off to the gym.”
“Thanks for the advice. You weren’t scared I might want to bust you?”
He shrugged. “You want a riot, go right ahead.”
She gave a brief smile. “Maybe another time.”
“This ‘friend’ of yours, any chance she might have been part of the advance guard?”
“Depends what you mean.”
He had paused to light the joint, inhaling deeply, then exhaling and speaking at the same time. “Stands to reason there’ll be blockades from first light, your lot trying to stop us getting near the hotel.” He offered her a hit, but she shook her head. “You’ll never know till you try,” he teased.
“Believe it or not, I was a teenager once…So the advance guard headed out of here earlier?”
“Ordnance survey maps in hand. Only the Ochil Hills between us and victory.”
“Cross-country in the dark? Isn’t that a bit risky?”
He offered a shrug, then drew on the joint again. A young woman was hovering nearby. “Get you anything?” he asked her. The transaction took half a minute: a tiny shrink-wrapped package for three ten-pound notes.
“Cheers,” the woman said. Then, to Siobhan: “Evening, Officer.” She was giggling as she left them. The dealer was looking at Siobhan’s overalls.
“I know when I’m beaten,” she admitted.
“So take my advice: sit and chill for a while. You might find something you didn’t know you were looking for.” He stroked his beard as he spoke.
“That’s…deep,” Siobhan told him, her tone letting him know she was thinking the exact opposite.
“You’ll see,” he retorted, moving past her into the gloom. She walked back to the fence and decided to phone Rebus. He didn’t pick up, so she left a message.
“Hi, it’s me. I’m in Stirling, no sign of Santal. I’ll see you tomorrow, but if you need me in the meantime, feel free to call.”
An exhausted but excited-looking group was entering the compound. Siobhan snapped shut her phone and moved to within earshot of them as they were met by some of their comrades.
“Heat-seeking radar…dogs…”
“Armed to the teeth, man…”
“American accents…marines, if you ask me…no ID…”
“Choppers…searchlights…”
“Had us for dead…”
“Tracked us halfway back to base camp…”
Then the questions started. How close did they get? Any weak points in the security? Did they reach the fence? Was anyone still out there?
“We split up…”
“Submachine guns, I figure…”
“Weren’t messing…”
“Split into ten groups of three…easier to lie low…”
“State of the art…”
More questions flew at them. Siobhan started counting heads, stopped at fifteen. Meaning a further fifteen were still out on the Ochils somewhere. In the hubbub, she launched her own question.
“Where’s Santal?”
A shake of the head. “Didn’t see her after we split up.”
One of them had unfolded a map, to show how far they’d gotten. He had a flashlight strapped to his forehead and was tracing the route with a muddied finger. Siobhan squeezed closer.
“It’s a total-exclusion zone…”
“Has to be a weak spot…”
“Force of numbers, that’s all we’ve got…”
“We’ll be ten thousand strong by morning.”
“Herbal cigarettes for all our brave soldiers!” As the dealer started handing them out, there were bursts of laughter from the crowd-a release of tension. Siobhan retreated to the back of the throng. A hand grasped her arm. It was the young woman who’d bought from the dealer earlier.
“Pigs better get wings,” she hissed.
Siobhan glared at her. “Or what?”
The young woman offered a malevolent smile. “Or I might have to squeal.”
Siobhan said nothing, just hoisted her bag and backed away. The young woman waved her off. The same guard was on duty at the gate.
“Did the disguise hold?” he asked with something just shy of a smirk.
All the way back to her car, Siobhan tried to think of a comeback…
Rebus had acted the gentleman: returned to Gayfield Square bearing cup noodles and chicken tikka wraps.
“You’re spoiling me,” Ellen Wylie said as he switched on the kettle.
“You also get first choice-chicken and mushroom or beef curry?”